


Candyass

by autoschediastic



Series: Suckerface [1]
Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they coined the term <em>in the zone</em>, they'd obviously foreseen the coming of one Greg Sanders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candyass

When they coined the term _in the zone_, they'd obviously foreseen the coming of one Greg Sanders. He's blazing (carefully) through the leftover odds and ends on four different cases and tying it all up in pretty little packages sweet as a ripe Georgia peach.

Relatively speaking, anyway. He'd hate to see Grissom's face if he handed over a floater case and called it pretty. The guy would probably take him seriously.

But yes sir, ladies and gentlemen, Greg is on fire tonight. He is calm, cool, collected, and when a big hand comes down on his shoulder, he definitely doesn't yelp like a little girl and jab himself in the arm with an eyedropper.

_Warrick_, is Greg's first thought, because for such big guy Warrick walks like ninja. Some might even say skulks. But the hand is a very light desert tan, and connected to that hand is a wrist with the kind of watch you get when you retire, and above that a tidily-pressed, pristine white cuff. Greg spins around slowly, hooks his headphones down around his neck with a pinky and lets his gaze travel leisurely up to meet Mike's.

Now, Mike Keppler. There is a man with a tendency to skulk. He's slunk about the lab since day one in his well-cut suits and classic solid ties and polished shoes, black on white every shift without fail. Not that professional dress is a bad thing. If Greg filled out his court suits the way Mike does, he'd probably have one for every day of the week.

"Sorry," Mike says, quiet after the riot of _Orgy_ thumping in his ears. "Just wanted to see if I could borrow your hands."

"Well." Greg puffs out a breath. Be nice to the new guy. He already has a completely unfair reputation for scaring people off. It's not his fault some can't handle the pressure. Going for a safe middle ground, he holds up both hands and wriggles his fingers. "They're pretty good hands."

Mike nods. "Small. C'mon, I'll need you in the light room." After a quick pat to Greg's shoulder, he heads for the door. "Five minutes? I need to make a quick supply run."

"Sure," Greg calls, reeling from the sheer number of dirty jokes he could've pulled from that spiel, if only he didn't have a runaway audience. "I'll just... finish up here." But Mike's gone, already halfway down the hall with his cell to his ear.

It takes the full five plus a few more to store the evidence he'd been working on. When he reaches the light room, it's empty, so he helps himself to a stool. There's nothing left lying around to indicate just what Mike's after, not that he really expected anything. By the book might not be Mike's motto but the guy seems cautious enough.

With a sideways glance at the door, Greg sizes up his hands, fingers splayed. They're not small. They're proportional. If he were six and a half feet tall, he'd have giant clumsy ham hocks for hands too.

Clumsy isn't the right word for Mike though. Precise. Intentional. Possibly with OCD leanings, and it isn't like that's an uncommon trait around the lab. They're all pretty much paid to be anal retentive to the point of insanity. But Mike is new and therefore Mike is interesting, shiny as a piece of tinfoil to a magpie.

"Sorry," Mike says again, slipping in to shut the door with his elbow, his hands full of evidence bags and reports. "Took longer than I thought."

"No problem." Hopping off the stool to help, Greg brushes off Mike's distracted murmur of thanks. "Me and my small but proportional hands are at your service."

Mike's smile is brief, tight. "I appreciate it."

From there, it's all business. Mike knows what he's doing and just how he wants it done, tossing off suggestions like orders one after the other. Luckily for him, it doesn't bother Greg in the least. Being on the lower end of the totem pole has its advantages.

Opportunist is an ugly word. Hodges is an opportunist. Greg is _available_.

"Just a moment," Mike says, pulling Greg's focus away from the grease stains on one of the many pieces of paper collected from a scene. His fingers wrap loosely around Greg's wrist with lots of room to spare, and in a bit of a daze, Greg watches Mike move his hand to a different sheet of paper, flattening his fingers out with the press of a palm.

Warmth seeps through twin layers of gloves. Mike's knuckles look bigger than they are pressed tightly against the latex like that, not at all suited to the delicate work they do every day. But Mike's grip is firm, steady, his touch exact as he shifts Greg's hand to the next torn paper in line. Side by side to his own, Mike's fingers are long, thick.

"So." Greg clears his throat, decides the arch of Mike's brow is an invitation to go on. "We got something here?"

"Yeah." Mike straightens up, strips off his gloves in a couple practiced snaps. "We have something."

"I am awesome, after all."

This time, Mike's smile is easier, carves itself a little deeper. His eyes crinkle at the corners and Greg's man enough to admit that's really kind of nice. "Thanks again for your help. I sort of swooped in there and kidnapped you."

"Like I said, anytime you need 'em, my hands are all yours."

Mike's reply is a low noise of agreement that rumbles its way down Greg's spine. Not the type to talk much, is Mike. Or go out of his way to express himself. So far, Greg's seen Polite and Politely Distracted. While there's something to be said for impeccable manners, Greg would like to hear a little something more.

In the middle of resealing an evidence bag, Mike says, "Funny, you didn't strike me as the _Orgy_ type."

Only through ironclad will does Greg keep from choking on his tongue. He most certainly _could_ be the orgy type. This is Vegas, after all. And he's young, adventurous. Just because he hasn't been invited doesn't mean he isn't the kind of person who enjoys participating in excessive nudity and is uniquely qualified to solve coordination issues.

"_Candyass_," Mike says, and Greg isn't sure if that's an insult or code for something. "A little more Franz Ferdinand, maybe."

"_Oh._"

"Oh?" Mike echoes, shrugging off his lab coat.

"I thought-" Greg waves it away with a rueful smile. It's a little too much and possibly even too shallow to hope the suit jacket follows. "Never mind."

Both of Mike's eyebrows creep slowly upward. Casually, he folds his arms across his chest, props a hip against the edge of the light table. "You thought?" he presses.

"I thought you meant orgy," Greg says, firmly yanking his gaze back up as it tries to slide on down the long, long line of Mike's legs. "As in, _an_ orgy. Y'know. Sex, multiple partners, generally both genders-"

Something like a smirk inches its way across Mike's mouth. "I know what an orgy is."

"Because I don't think that's something you can tell just by looking at me, right?"

"Of course."

"I mean, look at you." Greg gestures vaguely at Mike's casual pose. Almost a lounge, really. "I'm certainly not standing here trying to gauge your sexual preferences, or if you're the type to flirt with indecent exposure based on how you tie your shoes, am I?"

"You're not?"

Greg blinks. "No. Are you?"

"Which?"

"Either."

"Yes."

Words screech to a halt in Greg's throat. He narrows his eyes, sure he's being played. "Wait. Which one did you just answer?"

Mike pushes away from the table and starts gathering everything up. Laughter in his voice, he says, "Thanks again for your help, and the offer," and slips away while Greg stands there, gaping like a beached fish trying to puzzle his way through what the hell just happened.

Did Mike think- And did Mike turn him _down_?

Greg hightails it to Evidence. Gotta set Mike straight. Because if he _did_ offer (and offer in all seriousness, not a bit of harmless flirting to rile up the new guy), there's no way Mike would've turned him down. Aside from the whole messy business of protocol on employee relationships. Unless Mike _is_ as straight as his posture. Greg could forgive him that.

The hallways aren't bare, but even for the nightshift, it's slow. Less cases would be too much to ask for, it's probably a lull between CSIs out in the field and the flood of evidence into the lab.

Greg rounds the corner, just catches sight of Mike vanishing into one of the spare offices. More than likely his office now.

He knocks on the closed door, listening for Mike's, "Come in," before turning the knob.

Inside looks much the same as it had the week before Mike arrived. Sparsely furnished, generic stock of office supplies, the only new additions a few case files and a takeout cup of coffee on the desk.

"I think we had a slight misunderstanding," Greg says. He starts to close the door, pauses to ask, "May I?" and nudges it the rest of the way shut with his heel at Mike's nod. "I wasn't offering anything. Okay, yes, I offered to help again, sometime, if you needed it. But that's because I'm a great guy."

Rubbing his chin, Mike says, "Alright."

"Because if I _did_ offer a 'clandestine arrangement," and here Greg adds air quotes just to make sure there are no more miscommunications; clarity after all is key, "you'd know it. I'm not subtle."

"No," Mike agrees, "you aren't."

"You threw me off my game."

Mike's chair creaks as he pushes away from the desk. His hands are clasped loosely on his stomach, his knees casually spread, slacks pulled taut over his groin. For one weird, alarming moment, Greg flashes back on the image of how Brass always hikes up his pantlegs before sitting down, revealing the tops of his argyle socks and making that disturbing, giant poof of material form over his crotch.

Greg can see just a hint of the shape of Mike's cock through his slacks and it's about as far from disturbing as you can get and stay in the same country.

"So you were flirting with me," Mike says.

Greg winces, suitably distracted from Mike's assets even if not all that contrite.

"Huh." Sliding into a slump, elbow propped on the chair's arm as he rubs the tips of a few fingers across his lips, Mike says, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Leave the gloves on."

Greg's mouth snaps shut all on its own. A quick glance reminds him that yes, all the blinds are closed, and yes, Mike's door conveniently locks. But none of that matters, because Greg needs to buy a little time so he can figure out what Mike just said. There's no way in hell it was what Greg's obviously fevered and oversexed brain claims it was.

Mike's eyes shine in the light from the desklamp. He pushes up from the chair, rounding the corner of his desk to lean against it as if he's actually inviting Greg to size him up. Which could take awhile. There's an awful lot of him that deserves the attention. "Unless you weren't really offering that time, either?"

Thinking it'll be more than enough to call Mike's bluff, Greg flips the lock. Both of Mike's hands drop to grip the edge of his desk.

This is such a monumentally bad idea. Greg tells his feet they'd better not move one inch from the door, and naturally, just to spite him, they carry him straight across the floor until he's probably exactly an inch from Mike. Goddamn feet.

Up close, Mike smells good. A fact Greg hadn't failed to notice before, but it was more like a passing thought to Mike's grooming habits, wondering if he were the cologne or straight-up aftershave type, or if he went for balm since he didn't do stubble and razor-burn didn't seem to be an issue. So slightly more than a passing thought. Point is, Mike smells good, and Mike is leaning closer, picking up Greg's hand again just like before and Greg definitely wants to see what he does with it this time around.

"Since you're not subtle," Mike says, and presses Greg's hand to his belt buckle.

Instinctively, Greg's fingers curve over the leather. Right about now is a good time to back out. Nobody's done anything compromising, nobody's naked. Except Greg's hands are in cahoots with his feet and the belt is already slithering free of its loops. Mike's quiet sound of approval kicks Greg's pulse into overdrive.

Some days it seems like Greg's in gloves more often than he's not, so it isn't like he hasn't had time to get used to them. Still, his fingers feel clumsy as he goes for Mike's zipper, the heat seeping through Mike's clothes muffled even more by the latex covering Greg's hands.

Before he can tug them off, Mike's grip tightens on his wrist. "I wasn't kidding," Mike says, warm brush of lips near Greg's ear sparking a shiver along his spine, "leave them on."

Greg swallows so hard he's sure Mike hears it. Not his fault his throat's gone dry, the lab's full of recycled air. He'd put on fresh gloves to help Mike out and the evidence he'd touched had been all paper files. "Got a thing for latex, huh?"

Mike says, "I hear you do," and Greg sucks in a hissing breath as he fumbles the zip again. Sure, Mike's got a nice voice, and now it's _ruined_ because all Greg's going to hear from here on out is that low purr echoing inside his head.

Mike's fly is peeled open, framing the thick curve of his cock beneath dark underwear, when his grip slides up to Greg's elbow. Greg hesitates, backs of his knuckles one deep breath away from rubbing against the length of it, and tries to get in a quick glance at Mike's face to see what's up.

"Don't tease," Mike says. His lips are soft on the hinge of Greg's jaw, the lazy swipe of his tongue softer again. Greg knows his hotspots and that sure as hell wasn't one of them about two seconds ago. "Pull it out."

Greg's stomach does a swooping flip that would make the most jaded Cirque du Soleil veteran proud. He wets his lips, bare wrist brushing the soft hair low on Mike's belly as he slips his hand inside Mike's underwear. Heat presses against his fingertips moments before they find the weight of Mike's cock. Not all the way hard yet but getting there fast, a fresh rush of blood pumping beneath Greg's fingers as he tightens his grip, pulls the band down just far enough to tuck it beneath Mike's sac.

On the first slow stroke, latex stutters dry over delicate skin. Mike's fingers dig in to the point of pain but ease up a second later, a muffled apology and, "Feels good," breathed into the hair at Greg's nape.

Lust like an electric shock makes Greg's muscles jump. "Yeah?" Mike's cock is cut, with a shallow curve, and thick. Greg thumbs at the ridge, feels the catch of rubber and the quick, answering hiss of Mike's breath. "But just so you know," he says, letting the pad of his thumb drag over Mike's slit, no precome there yet to make it easy, "this isn't teasing."

"Seems similar," Mike counters, not able to stop the tiny, abortive thrust of his hips when Greg squeezes gently. "Identical."

Could be Greg's a little power-drunk on the way Mike feels in his hand, heavy and firm and soft all at once. As vivid and rich an imagination as Greg has, he's not sure he would've ever come up with this one. Not someone like Mike, all flat-eyed seriousness and workaholism, clutching the edge of his immaculate desk while Greg toys with his slit, coaxing it wet enough for the latex to just glide down the length of his cock, stumble and drag when the slick spreads too thin.

Mike's breathing goes ragged, throat clicking as he swallows the noises Greg really, really wants to hear. A couple moans won't bring the whole place rushing in on them. Cupping Mike's balls earns him another hot gust of breath on his neck, and a gentle tug spills something almost a moan between them. With a grin, Greg switches his grip, jacking Mike good and hard but slow, makes sure Mike doesn't miss a trick.

"Still not teasing?" Mike says, words forced out through what should've been a ragged groan. "Feels like teasing."

"Naw. This is-" For a second, Greg forgets what this is, as Mike's hand lifts from the desk to cup the side of his neck, thumb curved over his chin to rub over his lips. Mike's skin is a bit damp, salty, smells faintly of talc from the gloves he'd been wearing earlier. He barely gets a taste, tongue just grazing Mike's knuckle, before it slides away. "That was teasing," he accuses.

"Little bit."

Revenge is sweet, but the shudder that goes through Mike when he squeezes, pulls his hand down Mike's cock from root to tip, is sweeter still. The rough groan Greg's been dying to hear finally slips free, burns hot against his neck. He jerks Mike a little faster, hopes now that the dam's broken he'll hear what Mike really sounds like.

The hand on Greg's jaw goes tense. "Should've told me," Mike says, angling Greg's chin up the fraction he needs to bring their mouths close. His parted lips nudge Greg's, hot puff of his words sliding between them, not quite a kiss but so fucking close. For a split second Greg wonders if Mike's the kissing type or if he's just being fucked with, because Mike seems pretty damn good at messing him up. "If you wanted to hear me, just had to say."

"Fuck yeah, I want to hear you," Greg says. His mouth is tingling with the need for a kiss, and he's about two steps from getting his act together long enough to take it when Mike's tongue glides slick and warm over his bottom lip. Greg's never been big on self-denial so he goes for it, shoves Mike hard against the desk's edge and ignores the short huff of his laugh to lick the taste of bitter coffee out of his smug mouth.

Maybe not so smug, though, because the next thing out of Mike is a rough, hungry noise about as shameless as anything Greg's ever heard. Not loud or desperate like Greg knows he gets sometimes, but like Mike knows what he wants and if dancing to Greg's tune will make it happen, he's more than happy to oblige. It takes Greg all of three seconds to decide it's a fantastic, fascinating facet to Mike's personality that he'd like to explore at length.

Finding the rhythm that turns Mike's kiss sloppy ends up about as easy as getting into his pants in the first place. Greg spares half a thought to when the guy last got laid, the notion obliterated by the moan that slips from Mike's mouth straight into his. He lets go of Mike's sac in favour of grabbing at his side as the shallow roll of his hips becomes a sharp snap. Mike sways forward, his mouth dragging clumsily across Greg's cheek, aiming for another kiss that doesn't make it past the brief touch of their tongues.

Neither one of them needs it but Greg lets the steady stream of encouragement flow straight from his brain and out his mouth, all filters down, the safest way he knows to get what's clawing at his insides out without marking up the only bit of skin Mike's showing. Should've gotten Mike to loosen that tie just a little so leaving hickies on his neck wouldn't be Greg's only option. He's giving serious consideration to yanking that stiff collar down with his teeth when Mike rasps, "Gonna come," and every last scrap of Greg's attention snaps to the hard pulse of Mike's dick in his hand.

Greg gets his other hand cupped over the head just in time to catch it. For a guy that's supposedly past his prime, Mike shoots really fucking hard, a bit of come getting on Greg's lab coat when he's not careful about making sure he milks every last drop Mike's got to offer. Definitely not the worst thing that's ever been on it, anyway.

A gentle shove slumps Mike back against the desk, gives Greg a good look at his face as he comes down. The pinched white line between his brows slowly smoothes out as his mouth curves into one of those tiny almost-smiles. It falls right off his face when Greg drags a hand down his cock, body jerking in tandem with the snap of latex as Greg peels sticky gloves off, turns them inside out.

"Handy," Mike murmurs, and Greg grins, stuffs the gloves in his pocket to toss later. One more pair of come-stained gloves wouldn't stand out in DNA's trash.

"That's me," Greg agrees. Eager for the feel of Mike's skin without something in the way, he fits his hands to the sharp cut of muscle above Mike's hips. Not for the first time, he wonders at the shape of Mike's body beneath the ever-present suits, and if it'd really be creepy or not to hang around the showers while Mike's there.

Probably pretty creepy. But also probably very worth it, if the ripple of muscle on Mike's stomach as he strokes a hand over it is any indication.

Mike pushes away from the desk, opens the front of Greg's lab coat and goes straight for his zipper. A steady mantra of _don't fucking lose it_ springs to life in Greg's head, interrupted every now and then by _more_ as Mike's mouth brushes his and _don't trip like a clumsy idiot_ as Mike steers them around the corner of the desk. Despite his efforts, he falls into the seat hard enough to send it rolling away, and he'll swear to his dying day that when Mike catches it, hauls it right back and drops between his splayed knees, he wasn't anywhere close to creaming himself like a horny teenager.

"You'll stop me if you're not safe," Mike says, and any and all assurances Greg has to offer are lost as Mike's fingers push through the slit in his boxers. The pads are rough, send hot spikes of pleasure arrowing deep into Greg's belly as they rasp over the slippery head. Mike's gaze darts up, the quick curve of his mouth saying plain as day he likes the idea of Greg so turned on from just giving out a handjob that his dick's leaking. Ideally, Greg would like to offer in his defence that a) Mike is hot, b) giving Mike a handjob is hot, but c) Mike's tongue is sliding right over his slit so he has no idea what words even are anymore.

Too close to the edge, Greg lets his head fall back against the chair. He grips the arms tightly, fingers itching to push through Mike's short hair but he knows if he does that, he's going to come for sure, and attempting to choke a colleague on your cock is plain rude. Unless you're invited first.

Besides, Mike doesn't need any helping hands. He's got one of his own wrapped snug around Greg's cock as he mouths at the head, not-quite-kisses that melt into long, lazy swipes of his tongue. His lips are spit-slick as they slide down over aching flesh, his free hand resting on Greg's side, fingers curled under the waistband of his jeans.

Greg doesn't even notice he's inching higher and higher in the chair until his jeans are tugged down and his cock slips from Mike's mouth. He has time to say, "Wha-" before Mike shoves the chair against a short filing cabinet, unconcerned with the loud clang of an unlatched drawer slamming shut.

"Didn't think you'd be the type to squirm, either," Mike says. He sucks briefly on his fingertips before pushing his hand between Greg's legs, presses the tips of two against Greg's hole without so much as a blink. They're blunt and slick and Greg's heart gives a hard kick at his ribs at the thought of them inside him.

"I'm not," Greg puffs out. Mike arches an eyebrow, dipping his head down to suck Greg's dick straight back into his mouth at the same time as his fingers press harder, force muscle to give way just that little bit more. "Not above it," Greg adds in a rush, hips twisting fitfully between the incredibly soft heat of Mike's mouth and the rough promise of being fucked slowly open.

Mike pulls off again long enough to say, "Don't hold back on my account," and lets Greg's cock bump against his cheek, leave behind a glistening smear before taking it back in. Greg tries to hold off, he really, _really_ does, but Mike's not wasting any time, sucking as much as Greg's cock as he can and using his hand on the rest. It's the unexpected burn of Mike's finger sliding into him, not enough spit to make it easy, that sends him falling headfirst over the edge, fingers clawing at the chair and hips pumping, trying to force his cock down Mike's throat. Mike's finger crooks inside him, sharp reminder of its presence that he so doesn't need, and it takes the harsh scrape of Mike's teeth to get him to ease off.

Between panting breaths, Greg gasps, "Sorry, sorry, shit," and gropes blindly for Mike's arm, squeezing harder than he means. Mike hums quietly, sends a full-body shudder rocking Greg back in the chair, then another chasing swiftly after it as his finger drags free, rubs gently at delicate skin.

When Mike pulls off at last, Greg doesn't even think before leaning down to kiss him, maybe slightly guilty about almost choking the guy. Mike meets him halfway, keeps going until he's on his feet. Closed lips bump Greg's open and he jerks in surprise when it's the warm push of his own come into his mouth on Mike's tongue. Mike grabs his chin, smearing his face wet, and holds on until Greg accepts it. Some spills from the corner of his mouth and Mike chases it down, pushes it back up for Greg to lick off his tongue.

"Pretty dirty," Greg says, and Mike just makes that same low rumble of agreement, lazily kissing him again.

Mike wipes Greg's face with the back of his hand, then tucks himself away before using the trailing edge of Greg's lab coat to wipe his hands clean. "Suppose I'm full of surprises."

"I'm gonna need a few minutes before I walk out of here," Greg warns. And that's a generous estimate. He's fairly certain Mike just fried his brain, it's a wonder he can even talk.

"Take your time." Shifting the chair Greg's flopped in away from the cabinet, Mike pulls out a couple foil packets of takeout wetnaps. He cleans off his fingers one by one, even digging under his nails, and all the while keeps an eye on Greg. "I'm in no hurry."

Face heating, Greg says, "I should be." The way Mike's watching makes it feel like he's on display, and sprawled in Mike's chair like he is with his dick out, he sort of is. His limbs are shaky as he stands, hikes his pants back up and fumbles open the other wetnap, scrubbing at his chin before his hands. "So-"

"Leave the door open." Mike holds up his used napkin, tucks into the same pocket Greg had stuffed the dirty gloves. His hand lingers a fraction longer than it needs to. "Vegas seems to encourage an open-door policy."

Greg can't help himself. "Welcome to the department."

"Best one yet."


End file.
